


i'll tell you a story before it tells itself

by volunteer_of_hufflepuff



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Edward Courtenay POV, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Third Person Omniscient, Pining, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, canon-divergent, edward working through his insecurities, for reflecting on edward's canon death, tentatively tagging slow burn because all Edward does is PINE, we start with canon then backtrack from there to a happier ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23358676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteer_of_hufflepuff/pseuds/volunteer_of_hufflepuff
Summary: War has casualties of all sorts. Like Edward Courtenay, the soldier who Thomas Barrow was half-way in love with when he killed himself. But what if fate didn't have to turn out this way?Edward carries on living for one more day, Sybil Crawley does not give up, and Thomas is not left alone.Or: Edward Courtenay lives on to convalesce at Downton Abbey and pine after Thomas Barrow.It makes all of the difference.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay
Comments: 34
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! welcome! this is the most self-indulgent of fics: writing as you go multichapter.
> 
> hope you enjoy - title is from _this feeling_ , by the chainsmokers and kelsea ballerini.
> 
> the mcd warning really is a precaution: the mcd is the first scene describing what happens in canon, and then we backtrack into the canon-divergence where edward lives.
> 
> enjoy the angst!

Edward thought -

Well, he doesn’t know what he thought. It was silly, fleeting, anyway.

That maybe, perhaps -

His future wasn’t doomed.

That his feelings weren’t so -

That life could carry on, after everything had changed.

But now -

Farley Hall, Major Clarkson had said.

Had recovered enough, he said.

Doesn’t need their help no more, he said.

Edward thinks of how he will never see Thomas again when he presses cool metal against his skin.

Thinks that maybe -

Maybe, he isn’t so alone, after all.

But it’s too late.

He’s dead by morning.

.

The first time they meet, he dies.

A kind word.

The shift of a gun.

What changes our destiny, what changes our fate?

Is it a shift, or is it something much greater?

.

The same evening: the same meeting.

Edward Courtenay has a razor pressed against his wrists.

But this time, he does not die in the morning, and Thomas Barrow does not weep alone for the man he was starting to love (learning to read between the lines, through a man’s cold mask, and you may think loved).

.

It’s quite simple, really.

A candle burns out, quicker than it did in the reality that never was.

Simple as that.

And one more man lives.

Now. What could this change?

.

The door creaks open.

The razor slips out of Edward’s hand.

There’s the babble of a newly-minted nurse. “Sorry, sirs, just fetching another candle, I’m sor-”

She’s cut off by a stern, but somehow comforting, voice.

“Calm down, Nurse Tallis. It’s been a long day. Come with me, now. I’ve got a spare candle in my room, we should let the poor men rest.”

_Thomas._

Edward doesn’t look for the razor that night: it would cause too much fuss, too much noise, and then he would be discovered.

Exhaustion carries him to dawn.

Not death.

Not this time, no.

.

Edward is woken up by the warmth of the rising sun upon his face.

There’s the rustle of sheets, the squeak of the door.

“Major Clarkson-”

“I told you, Nurse Crawley, that the transfer is happening and that’s final.”

The gruff, uncompromising voice of Major Clarkson rings through the ward.

Edward swallows, thinks of the razor lying underneath his bed.

He can always try again tonight.

“But do we really have to send him so far away? I think Corporal Barrow’s assessment was sound, really-”

“No, he’s not staying here-”

“But if I talked to my father, maybe we could work out something more local, and Corporal Barrow and I could check on him. Make sure he doesn’t have a turn for the worse. I really think-”

Then there’s a grunt, a sigh.

“If you can get Lord Grantham to agree-”

“I will.”

There’s a fire, a determination, flaring up in her words.

“Then maybe Courtenay can be moved to the Abbey instead.”

There is the sharp closing of a clipboard, the scratch of a pen.

“If you mind, Nurse Crawley, we have work to do.”

“Of course, sir.”

There’s the pitter-patter of feet, the squeak of an unoiled door.

Then silence.

And Edward thinks.

Maybe he should let the razor lie for another day.

.

Thomas visits Edward every day at quarter past two.

Well, maybe _visits_ isn’t the right word. It’s Thomas’ job to give Edward his medication.

But Edward likes to think that Thomas - Corporal Barrow, really, but what’s the harm in calling him by his Christian name in Edward’s head - doesn’t just come out of obligation, or duty, but because he likes Edward, cares for Edward.

Wishful thinking, Edward knows. He isn’t even hoping for anything untoward: a friendly smile, a clap on the back.

Well, maybe in his most intimate fantasies: but it’s not proper, not legal, to wish for things so _queer_ , so he’ll keep them to himself, and not have the world think of him as any more broken.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Thomas’ voice is smooth, melodic: warm, almost like honey sliding down a silver spoon.

Thomas hands him his medicine. His palm is cool.

“I’ve sent your prescription off to Farley Hall, sir,” he says. He sounds - dejected, almost, even defeated. “You’ll be well looked after there. They have specialists and the like, teachers of braille.”

Edward swallows his medicine. It is bitter: like the thought of moving away, away from Thomas and - yes, his acerbic nature -, but also his kind words and gentle compassion.

“Thank you,” he says, and he tries to sound a bit more upbeat than he really feels about his upcoming transfer.

Though - if Nurse Crawley wasn’t just ruffling up Clarkson’s feathers, maybe he wouldn’t have to pretend as much.

Maybe-

Maybe it is worth living, another day, if he doesn't have to lose Thomas - lose his comfort, the familiarity and warmth of Thomas and of Nurse Crawley too.

Edward listens to the glide of Thomas' voice as he dutifully reads from _North and South_ , for a few minutes before he has to leave, in an effort to lift Edward's spirits.

And thinks. Thinks that he will wait one more day, if there's any chance that he can keep Thomas in his life, in whatever small form that may be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans to move Edward to Downton Abbey are formalised, and Edward pines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> here, have some pining and a living Edward.

That night, a night where Edward Courtenay still breathes, the sun sets in an explosion of fiery colour, but no one stops to witness it, too lost in the chaos of their own lives.

Fate has shifted, rippled, so that Edward did not take his life last night: but there's still a razor lying hidden under his bed. 

Tonight, inside the extravagant dining room of Downton Abbey with its tall gilded walls, amongst chatter around the war that hasn’t left even aristocrats unscathed, Edward Courtenay's life is lengthened by decades instead of days.

In this universe, in this story, Edward Courtenay is not the bloodstained tragedy Downton Abbey's life as a convalescent home is built on, but its first patient instead.

It starts with Sybil Crawley turning to her father with determination lighting her eyes, fierce and bright and hopeful.

“Father,” she whispers.

Her father, Lord Grantham - usually referred to as simply Robert by family - turns to his daughter. He has a soft spot for his youngest; and this softness, amongst so many other little factors, come together to save Edward Courtenay’s life.

“Yes, Sybil?”

Sybil - Sybil Crawley, a suffragette, a voluntary nurse, a flaming visionary - speaks with a blinding passion. “There’s a patient at the hospital, and he’s made me think of something. He’s awfully depressed - blinded by gas, his family is simply horrible - but Clarkson wants to move him to Farley Hall.”

Robert shakes his head, tuts. “How dreadful.”

Robert Crawley has never been a big fan of Major Clarkson, and that, perhaps, is another little factor that tweaks Edward’s fate for the better.

“Yes, it is.” Sybil Crawley hides her fury with her ‘superior’, Major Clarkson, by cutting her beef with more force than strictly necessary. “Well, me and Corporal Barrow are terribly worried that he would,” and here her voice drops to a whisper, lest Carson - a stiff, conservative man - hears, " _ do _ something if he was moved.”

Displeasure overtakes Robert’s face. “Well, we can’t have that. A poor reward for sacrificing himself for king and country, I daresay.”

Sybil sets her fork down, carefully, as hope emerges within her because perhaps, just perhaps, Edward will not have to lose all of his progress so painstakingly won. “Exactly.” She smiles, like a shark, as the sweet and vicious person she can be when those she cares for are threatened. “So, Father, I was wondering if we could accommodate him here? Then Barrow and I could visit him, and he wouldn’t get so lonely.”

Lonely like he did, that night he almost took his life. 

Sybil doesn’t know this, but she does know that Edward going to Farley Hall, in the fragile state he is, isn’t right, is a thing that shouldn't be done.

Robert frowns, thinks for a second. He’s a Lord, yes, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a heart.

Social events have dried up in the wake of this war. They have a multitude of empty rooms.

Robert thinks that he can help one lonely soldier, do his bit for king and country. 

Robert Crawley’s bleeding heart saves Edward Courtenay’s life, here.

“Of course,” he says, with a conviction rarely heard. “I’ll have to make arrangements with the staff, but of course he can come and stay at Downton.”

And Sybil beams, overjoyed, that safety doesn’t have to be sacrificed for necessity, that, though she doesn’t know it, one young man’s life is not needlessly signed away.

The pieces slip into place.

And Edward Courtenay still lives on, on a night where in a timeline foregone Thomas Barrow cried and cried and cried, all alone. But this is not this world, for blood still flows in Edward's veins uncut.

.

It is just after dawn when Nurse Crawley next visits Edward, or so he is told.

“Lieutenant Courtenay,” she says, gently, “I’ve got some good news. You can come and convalesce at my home instead of Farley Hall if you want - it’s not a perfect solution, but we have the beds, and Barrow and I can come and visit regularly.”

Edward’s whole world shifts, pivots.

Maybe he doesn’t have to give up.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse; suddenly, he is aware of all his body’s aches and pains which he has been suppressing. He blinks back tears. “Thank you, truly. I accept and appreciate your family’s hospitality.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Nurse Crawley says, warmth bleeding into her words. “Enjoy your day, Lieutenant Courtenay. Your transfer should occur by the end of the week.”

The world feels infinitely brighter than it did when he woke up.

He wonders, though he cannot imagine life after this war, what he can do now.

He doesn’t have his sight. It’s been stolen, taken.

But he still has his life. And he plans to make the most of it.

Preferably with kissing -

No. He can’t think of that, can’t wonder what Thomas looks like, what his lips would feel like under Edward’s -

It’s improper, illegal.

But Edward still dreams, still yearns, for something impossible with the man who has cared for him so.

.

At fifteen minutes past two, Thomas visits him, as he is punctual, reliable: one of the many things Edward adores about him.

“Thank you,” Edward says, picking up the pills Thomas places on his bedside table, smiling.

No complaints, no grumbling. Not today, no, when everything is no longer so bleak.

“You’re welcome,” Thomas replies, next handing him his water, “did Nurse Crawley tell you the news? You seem chipper today, Lieutenant.”

Here, in the middle of the ward, their conversations often have a stilted formality.

Edward wonders what it would be like if they could truly be alone, and if Thomas - if Thomas -

If Thomas wanted to kiss him too.

“I am.” Edward’s grin broadens. “I am, Barrow.”

“That’s good to hear, sir,” Thomas says, with what Edward hopes is affection slipping through his politeness, “if you would like me to visit, I can arrange a time to go up to the Abbey - I do sometimes already - to continue work on improving your walking.”

“That would be lovely,” Edward replies. He can’t seem to stop smiling. “Thank you, Barrow.”

“You’re welcome,” Thomas repeats, taking the glass from Edward's hands. “I’ll be going now, sir.”

The click of his steps as he walks away is comforting.

Edward’s life isn’t over, it seems.

Maybe he can remember what being happy felt like if he gets to keep Thomas, in some shape or form that isn’t the dwindling letters of his family since he returned from the front.

Perhaps.

.

Night falls, the nurse’s chatter quietens, and Edward is lost to his thoughts.

Edward is glad that he doesn’t have to leave Downton, doesn’t have to leave Thomas.

Not that he doesn’t like Nurse Crawley, not that he is not grateful for what she has done for him.

But Nurse Crawley doesn’t make his heart flutter the way Thomas does: Thomas instils a twist of longing into his heart, making Edward wonder what he looks like, what it would be like to kiss his lips -

Edward cannot deny it anymore: he has a crush on Thomas, illicit feelings, however delightful they may be.

It will never amount to anything, but Thomas is so sweet, so caring, that Edward cannot help but wonder.

Wonder, if this world was kinder, if he could lean up and kiss -

Edward, in the blissed state of his newfound luck, dreams of kissing Thomas Barrow underneath the warmth of dappled afternoon sun, fresh grass tickling his arms.

Edward wishes. He yearns.

But he’s chosen an impossible dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! all signs of appreciation are seen and valued, kudos and comments and whatnot xx
> 
> hope you enjoyed this instalment of my little stress-free wip with no expectations placed on myself - be kind to yourself, too!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward travels to Downton Abbey: his pining continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Edward's pining is a lot.

True to Nurse Crawley’s word, Edward’s transfer to Downton Abbey is finalised by the end of the week.

On Saturday, near dusk, he’s leaving Downton hospital for good. Not with Nurse Crawley, but with Corporal Barrow.

_ If he kicks up a fuss about you not moving to Farley _ , Clarkson had muttered, _ then he can damn well deal with all the extra work _ .

Edward’s certainly not complaining about the arrangements, but he does feel guilty that he’s adding to Thomas’ workload, which he knows must already be overflowing.

Yet Thomas’ hand on his elbow, gently leading him out of the hospital and into the car sent by the Crawleys, is such a welcome presence that Edward squashes down his lingering guilt, tries to just simply enjoy Thomas’ presence.

Thomas, who is now sitting next to him, in some sort of companionable silence, as Edward had insisted.

“You will be staying in a ground floor guest bedroom,” Thomas says quietly as the car rocks over cobbled roads, “you’ll be taking meals in your room. Of course, you will not be confined to it. I will be visiting twice a week, as my schedule permits - Nurse Crawley will inform you of when my visits will be in advance - to assist you in walking the grounds. Nurse Crawley, as well as staff, will be checking on you regularly.”

“Thank you,” Edward replies, softly, “really, thank you. Because of you and Nurse Crawley, I don’t think I’ll regress.”

He doesn’t talk about how irreparably he had almost regressed when he could see no way out, that one night when his future had seemed extinguished, colourless.

Thomas is curt when he responds. “You’re welcome.”

The car tilts: altogether, it is a smooth ride, but, sitting next to Thomas with their knees touching, Edward is aware of every shift.

“Personally,” Thomas continues, dropping his voice, “I think Nurse Crawley has bigger plans for Downton, maybe converting a significant portion of it into a convalescent home, and you’re her starting point. If that does happen, I will ask to be transferred here so I can get out of underneath Clarkson’s thumb. We could also continue with your walking more frequently.”

“Oh,” Edward says. He doesn’t speak of how much he wants that to happen, how his heart quickens at the mere possibility. “Well, it would be welcome to have the company of soldiers and the like, so I don’t feel so out of place here.”

_ Especially you _ , his heart whispers,  _ you, and always you, Thomas. _

There’s a dryness in Thomas’ voice when he next speaks, a dryness Edward cannot help but adore. “I hope that you will consider taking up Braille, regardless of what happens. It will be a steep learning curve, no doubt, but Nurse Crawley and I believe that it will help immensely in your recovery.”

Edward, in the illicit parts of his mind, dreams of Thomas’ hand over his, guiding Edward to trace over the bumps he knows Braille is made of.

“Of course,” Edward replies, his voice still impossibly soft, impossibly fond, but he knows it will be thought of as hoarse because of the gas to anyone else. “It would be a good use of my time, but I would need some help at the start.”

“Nurse Crawley and I will do our utmost to provide that support if you require it,” Thomas replies, though there is an undercurrent of reluctance, “but I do not know how good we will be, not having studied it ourselves before. However, though she has also not studied it, I could see the middle Crawley daughter - Lady Edith - perhaps helping you for something to do.” He hesitates, for a second, before he adds. “She does have a generous spirit, of sorts, if not as big as Nurse Crawley’s, and a lot more free time than either of us.”

Thomas had told him, a little bit awkwardly, stiffly, of the four years he spent working at Downton Abbey, threaded with colourful stories of people Edward would now be living with.

He wonders how they will receive him, the staff, the family; not unkindly, he hopes, with them letting him stay there and all.

“That would be lovely,” Edward says. He’s perhaps too intimately aware that, though Thomas and Nurse Crawley are his comfort people at the moment, that he should expand his social circle, if his family continues to be as unhelpful as they have been so far. “If she offers, I think I will accept.”

“Let us hope she does,” Thomas says, moving his hand away from where it had been idly resting near Edward’s shoulder: the rustle of fabric, the brush of air, feels intimate in a way Edward knows it should not. There’s the click, then the ticking, of what must be a pocket watch.

Seconds seem to be slipping through his hands like silken thread.

“Are we close, Barrow?” Edward asks, for something to ask, something to do.

“Nearly there, we are almost at the driveway,” Thomas replies, sighing. “And if I may be imprudent, sir, I think if Lady Edith did offer, it would be good for both of you if you accepted.”

Edward already yearns for something to fill his days, but Thomas’ endorsement just makes the prospect sweeter.

The car stops, halts.

“We have arrived at Downton Abbey, Lieutenant Courtenay,” the chauffeur says, his Irish accent thick.

“Wait here,” Thomas mumbles to Edward, slipping out first. 

The crunch of gravel, the warmth of sunlight slipping through the now opened door.

“Grab onto my arm, Lieutenant Courtenay.” Edward reaches out, brushing against Thomas’ shoulder. “To your right, down a bit.”

Edward grips Thomas’ arm, both grateful for the guidance and his steady presence.

Thomas lets Edward fumble his own way out. They trust each other; Thomas that Edward knows how to step out of a car, if albeit at the moment with some assistance, and Edward that Thomas won’t let him fall.

The gravel crunches underneath Edward’s feet and Thomas hands him his cane.

“This way, sir,” he says, with a dull, blunt formality. “That will be all, Branson.”

And in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, Edward is led to the next chapter of his life by the man he so secretly yearns for.

Edward wants to move forward, go on.

His future is no longer so bleak, the light at the end of the tunnel brightening, widening.

That night, in a bed much more comfortable than the hospital one he had been sleeping in, he dreams of Thomas leading him out to a field dotted with daisies and dappled by the sun, to kiss him against a willow tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos and all other sorts of feedback are seen and appreciated! xx
> 
> fixed my previous references to Thomas as 'sergeant' when he was still 'corporal'.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward continues to pine as he settles into his new life at Downton Abbey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> all the pining, as usual.

Edward is woken by the clatter of coal.

"Hello?" He says, sleepily. "Who's it?"

There's a scuffle, the clanking of the grate, before his question is answered: well, sort of.

"Sorry, sir." She sounds young, a little frightened. "Didn't mean to wake you up, just lighting your fire."

Edward shakes his head, waves his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, it's not like I would have slept much longer. Are you the scullery maid?"

There's silence, for a moment, until she speaks up again. "No, sir. I'm a kitchen maid now, but we're short-staffed with all the men signing up for the war, and as I was scullery maid, I've been pitching in by setting up the fires every once in a while." There's a pause, before the maid tentatively adds. "Name's Daisy, sir."

Edward smiles, hoping that he doesn't frighten Daisy off further, who already seems slightly intimidated of him. "Nice to meet you, Daisy."

His calm, measured tone appears to work: Daisy seems to calm down a little, her jitters fading. "You're Lady Sybil's friend, right? Lieutenant Courtenay?"

Edward nods, though he can't help but be taken aback by hearing Nurse Crawley referred to as a lady, though he did know of it.

Nurse Crawley's just so… forthright, devoid of frills or snobbery, it's hard to think of her as a prim and proper lady.

"That I am. She was my nurse down at the hospital, and she and Thomas helped so wonderfully in my early recovery, they thought it best to have me convalesce here rather than at Farley Hall."

He doesn't speak of the depression he had slipped into - still was in, if he was being honest, but it is more muted, less vicious now - that had pushed for such an unusual course of action.

It's with a jarring, heart-stopping realisation that his slip of the tongue comes to him, in a wave of panic, that he accidentally slipped and referred to Corporal Barrow as Thomas, in an awfully over-familiar way.

If Daisy notices his slip, she doesn't comment on it.

"I'm glad to hear it, sir," Daisy replies, and though they've just met, there's sincerity laced in her tone. "I'll make your fire, and our footman William will bring up your breakfast at half-past eight."

"How long will that be?" Edward asks, softly. He has no way of knowing, independently, the time of day now, and it still unsettles him.

Nurse Crawley had spoken of clocks with numbers in engraved braille.

He really should get to studying that.

Daisy, who is now back to making the fire, says. "About an hour and a half, sir."

With introductions and chit-chat all done with one member of the staff here in the gilded walls of Downton Abbey, Edward closes his eyes, though it doesn't make much difference to the endless dark void in front of him, and rests once more.

.

Thomas comes to visit that very day.

This pleasant surprise is bookended by Thomas’ short, perfunctory remark that this will not be standard, that he will be helping the footman, William, who will, for now - all young men, of course, being on the verge of being called up - assist in dressing Edward.

In his new room, in nothing but his undergarments, Edward stands before the two men.

“William,” Thomas starts, curtly, “first of all, you will be _assisting_ Lieutenant Courtenay in dressing himself, not dressing him completely. We are working to increase his independence, with the ability to dress and undress himself being one of those abilities.”

William - the bright, cheery, hard-working footman who had brought up his breakfast this morning - runs a hand across the shirt lying on what must be Edward’s bed, the rustling fabric the only sound penetrating the room that is not birdsong.

Thomas had briefly described the shirt to Edward before: linen, sky blue with white buttons down the middle almost half an inch wide.

“Yes, Tho-”

Thomas promptly interrupts, “It is _Corporal Barrow_ now, William, thank you very much.”

William clears his throat. Thomas had told Edward that they had a bit of a rocky past. “I understand your instructions, Corporal Barrow.”

“Now,” Thomas continues, “Lieutenant Courtenay has adapted wonderfully and can now put on pants and shirts largely independently, so your main role is correcting errors, such as a lopsided tie or if he has accidentally got the buttons the wrong way around.”

“Yes, Corporal Barrow,” William says, nervously.

Thomas shifts, probably to face Edward. “I will now assist Lieutenant Courtenay in dressing for a standard day’s outfit. If he is to dine with the family, he will, as would any other man, need more assistance with the outfit.”

Then, more softly, he says to Edward. “The shirt and pants are on the bed behind you, sir.”

Edward picks up the shirt, slips it on, and in the quiet stillness of the late afternoon, starts to button it up.

When he runs his hand over it when he is done to check that it is even, he curses.

“Would you like me to unbutton it for you so that you can try again?” Thomas asks, with all the formality and propriety of a man whose thoughts did not stray to the improper places Edward’s did.

If his face was not a mess of scars and raised pink tissue, Edward knew his face would flare red now, even though this will not be the first time that Thomas has touched him, in lieu of helping Edward dress.

“Of course,” he says, softly, too softly, “thank you, Corporal Barrow.”

Carefully, methodically, Thomas’ hands brush against Edward’s chest as he undoes the buttons.

Edward tries - fruitlessly, painstakingly - to keep his mind out of the realm of impropriety, but he fails miserably.

He wonders what it would be like if Thomas wasn’t just undressing him for the sake of demonstration, in assistance, if instead they were secluded in a private room with kisses and touches and -

Edward blinks his thoughts, his thoughts of impossible pleasure and intimacy, away, as Thomas’ hands finally fall away, his shirt now unbuttoned.

“There,” Thomas says. “As you can see, William, allow for Lieutenant Courtenay to dictate the situation and you must ask before touching him.”

Edward cannot help but swallow, pushes down the thought of _but you, Thomas, you never have to ask - you can always touch me._

He stays silent.

“Your tie, sir.” Thomas hands him smooth silk - Thomas is careful to ensure that their hands don’t touch, but Edward wishes so desperately that he wasn’t so self-conscious about the scar that marred his hand, which he knows from soft-spoken conversations by candlelight is covered by soft leather.

Edward ties it around his neck: this, at least, is familiar, comforting.

He no longer wishes for death, but his yearning for Thomas, which deepens with every passing second, is another form of agony altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all comments, kudos, etc are appreciated xx
> 
> I have had this chapter, in part, prepared for a while, but *gestures vaguely at dumpsterfire of world* - I hope that this brightened your day!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward meets the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time, no see, some pining to be had and a hint of plot! please enjoy this chapter of pining and pining and more pining! also the granthams.

Thomas leaves, and it is time for Edward to meet the family.

The family who he is now irreversibly dependent on.

No pressure.

William has left, telling him that tea would be shortly.

The door swings open.

A whiff of jasmine.

Nurse Crawley. Or, well, Edward supposes he should call her Lady Sybil now, or her father may have a conniption, so she told him.

“Lieutenant Courtenay,” she says, walking in, the swish of her skirt cutting across the silence lingering in Thomas’ absence. “I’m so glad you are here. Have you settled in well?”

Edward nods, resisting the urge to smooth down his button-down shirt, which he knows Thomas would have done up immaculately. “I have, thank you.”

"That's good," she says brightly. “I've come to escort you to tea. Take my elbow, you’ll learn your way around soon enough.”

Edward takes her elbow: she is firm, unyielding, so lovely to have unknowingly saved him from the brink of death - and yet, he still wishes Thomas was here - not instead of her, but with her because both of them have been such blessings on his life, albeit in different ways.

“Thank you,” he repeats, lest he accidentally slips into crafting poetic about Thomas. “What are they like?”

“Oh,” Nurse Crawley says, just a tad too cheerful, “absolutely lovely. Granny - my father’s mother - is coming for tea today. She’s quite acerbic, but you’ll get used to her. She comes often enough. My sisters.” She sighs, weary. “Good luck.”

“That bad?” Edward asks, half-teasingly, half-seriously.

Her voice drops. “Mary is, well.” She hesitates. “A bit of a bitch, if I’m to be completely frank.”

“I’ll be on my best manners,” Edward says, as they start to walk out of his bedroom.

“Speaking of,” Nurse Crawley says, closing the door behind her with a quiet click, “I wouldn’t mention Sergeant Barrow much in mixed company. Our butler, Carson, isn’t exactly his biggest fan.”

“So I shouldn’t have brought along my book singing his praises, then?”

Nurse Crawley laughs, shaking slightly. “He’d burn it right in front of you.”

He said it like a joke, but -

Edward could write a whole symphony about Thomas.

.

The walk to the library does not take long, though Edward wishes it did, if just to prolong such a pivotal introduction.

“You’ll be fine,” Nurse Crawley says, softly. “Just remember to call me Lady Sybil and they’ll love you.”

.

The velvet of the chair he is sitting in is so soft, so decadent.

Edward carefully sips at his tea, the porcelain smooth against his cracked lips. 

“Welcome to our home, Lieutenant Courtenay,” says a soft, gentle voice - American? Nurse Crawley’s mother, then.

“Thank you for having me,” Edward says, carefully putting his cup down on the table beside him.

“So you are Sybil’s lieutenant?” The Dowager asks him: it must be the dowager, too raspy and forthright to be either of Nurse Crawley’s sisters.

“In a funny way, I am,” Edward replies, his eyebrow slightly raised, light, cautious, “but neither Sergeant Barrow nor Lady Sybil thought that I was ready to move to a convalescent home, and thankfully Lord Grantham at Lady Sybil's request has agreed to let me stay here to facilitate my recovery without taking up a needed bed.”

“We must all do our bit for the war effort,” a deep, polished voice chips in, most likely Lord Grantham.

“Is it difficult?” The Dowager says, curt and cool, though not necessarily unfriendly. “Not being able to see?”

Nurse Crawley hisses  _ Granny _ , but Edward - well.

He’d rather not be treated like the delicate porcelain next to him, about to shatter at the merest breath of wind. In a strange way, the Dowager’s blunt honesty is almost refreshing.

“It has been an adjustment, Lady Grantham,” Edward says, slowly, “but I am learning to adapt.”

What he doesn’t say: that he is learning to explore the world under a whole new set of rules, that behind him, every step of the way, is Thomas, hands warm against his arm, close - but never truly touching.

He really is the epitome of professional, and Edward - he kind of hates it, sometimes, but that’s only because he has such a yearning for Thomas, in a way that could never be classed as professional.

But now, now, he talks with his hosts, words carefully chosen as to not paint a target on his back, and adapts.

.

As they leave the library, there is the soft call of his name.

Edward frowns, though it is not out of displeasure, but rather confusion. “Lady Edith?”

“I was wondering, Lieutenant Courtenay.” There is the rustle of silk. “If I could help with your rehabilitation?”

“Oh,” Edward says, surprised, “that would be lovely, Lady Edith, but please don’t feel obligated to help me simply because I am residing in your home.”

“I don’t feel obligated.” There’s an odd note of desperation in her voice. “Please. I want to do this. I want to help somehow. It will give you more time with Sybil, for all the medical things, and.” Her voice breaks, though it is slight.

Edward remembers Thomas’ words.  _ I could see the middle Crawley daughter - Lady Edith - perhaps helping you. She does have a generous spirit, of sorts. _

It is that, more than anything else, Thomas’ seal of approval, that makes Edward’s mind up.

“Thank you, Lady Edith,” Edward says, smiling, “your help would be much appreciated.”

“I will put in an order for some books on braille,” Lady Edith says, now sounding much calmer than she had before. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

Edward doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t have to figure it out: with a swish of skirts, leaving behind a lingering scent of lavender, Lady Edith departs the room.

Nurse Crawley is waiting for him outside of the room.

“Now, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” She teases lightly, carefully taking his arm. “Soon you’ll be coming for our dinners.”

Edward cannot manage to suppress a shudder. Such formal dinners were difficult and tiresome before he became blind.

“And thank you for accepting Edith’s help,” she adds, in a low voice, “it’s going to do so much good for the both of you.”

Edward swallows, still getting used to such open generosity. “It was nice of her.”

Nurse Crawley sighs when they reach his room. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to go change for dinner. William will bring up your dinner.”

“Thanks, Nurse Crawley.”

She departs, and silence falls back upon him.

Him and his lonely heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all comments, kudoses, bookmarks, etc, are all seen and appreciated - really. you all have been very sweet, and I would like to congratulate everyone for not leaving one (1) request for an update, which has been much appreciated as I navigate a global pandemic amongst a mountain of work!
> 
> till next time! which should be a shorter wait, as the next chapter is half-written. a wild thomas _will_ appear.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas comes for a visit, assisting Edward in a myriad of ways, though not his pining heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter of pining, pining, and yes, more pining
> 
> also, shakespeare

The next day dawns cold, a bitter bite cutting through the roaring flames.

Edward shivers when he wakes.

Today - today, Thomas is coming.

The Crawleys have been lovely, accommodating, as Edward slowly learns his way around the Abbey.

What he has learnt so far: Edith is often overlooked, and desperately craves company. Lady Grantham is nothing but refined elegance, as is her mother-in-law, the Dowager, whose wit is so taut Edward is almost waiting for her wine glass to shatter.

Lord Grantham - surprisingly benevolent, for the Lord of the land, contrary to Thomas' cutting quips slipped in when Nurse Crawley's back was turned, though perhaps that is just a reflection of their difference in class. Mary - beautiful, he has been told, but all he can hear is her malice.

Similar to Thomas' - yet unlike Thomas, she has lived her life in luxury - though that does not mean she has not known suffering.

Edward should know. Being fifth in line for a small honourable noble line, living a life in relative comfort as an upper-middle-class man - none of that stopped his eyesight from going, didn't guarantee a family that cared.

He tries not to be bitter. After all, this way, he still gets to spend time with Thomas, under the guise of medical recuperation as it will be.

Yet -

_Don't worry about the farm. Jack will take care of it. We've been looking into a lovely nursing home, it's near the seaside outside of Manchester -_

His life hasn't ended just because he lost his eyesight, and his family - his family doesn't seem to quite get that.

He's starting to fall into the routine now - three days in, and Downton Abbey is starting to feel like more of a home than his parents' ever had.

So, when the door creaks open, Daisy coming in with his tray, he shakes himself out of his melancholy.

Thomas is coming today.

The Crawleys have been lovely.

Daisy pours him a cup of tea.

Edward smiles, quietly says thank you, the ceramic hot against his palm.

The past can't be controlled. Nor can his family.

But the present -

Edward pushes away the knife striking at his heart, the desire to kiss Thomas still lingering, almost impalpable -

He can control some things.

If kissing Thomas will always be a fantasy instead of a reality, well -

Edward swallows. The tea is perfect, slightly sweet. Mrs Patmore is a wonderful cook, truly.

At least he was here, not stuck in the hollow walls of 'home'.

.

Edward has returned to his bedroom, hours later, to the swish of warm water, the faint soapy scent of lather.

Thomas has decided that Edward is in need of a shave - gosh, what is he trying to do him, make his heart fly out of his chest, melt him into a puddle, they’re going to be so _close_ -

Technically speaking, Thomas had turned up, for his first in what Edward hopes will be a long string of visits, with a shaving kit, and asked if Edward would like a shave.

Edward, fool that he is, had said yes.

He is really starting to regret it, though he knows his week-long scruff isn’t exactly his best look.

The whistle of a shaving blade, and Edward shivers. He wonders if he can ever find the courage to hold a shaving blade again.

It feels so near, and yet so far away, that night he almost took his life.

“Right,” Thomas says, and his voice is so smooth, so pleasant to listen to. “I'll start with your right cheek, stay still." A dry laugh. "You know the drill by now.”

Sure, they’ve done this before, but not in private, nestled away in Edward’s secluded bedroom.

Edward is fit to burst.

A warm hand, partially covered by smooth leather, now cradles Edward’s face, keeping him steady - oh gosh, it is so warm, so lovely -

Edward is glad that his blush can no longer be detected, for if it could, Thomas would be asking him some very awkward questions.

Yet Thomas is professional, so professional, gently tilting his head back and forth as with small, quick strokes, he shaves Edward’s face.

Edward’s eyes are closed, not that it makes any difference. He - gosh, he wants to live in this moment forever, Thomas’ hands brushing against his face, making Edward so dizzy he almost forgets himself and pulls Thomas in for a kiss, sharp blades and prison be damned.

He yearns, but his plea finds no answer but the soft hands and warm words of Thomas Barrow, a man he can never have, not how he wants.

“That’s all,” Thomas says, finally pulling back, softly wiping Edward’s face with a decadently soft towel. “Would you like to go on a walk now?

More time spent with Thomas, alone, in constant contact.

Someone really is trying to kill Edward today, aren’t they?

Still, Edward nods, though another dagger slices his heart. That is the double-edged sword of yearning, of pain and pleasure, of wanting so desperately for something you can never have.

Time together is so precious, but it is always bittersweet.

.

The leaves crunch as they walk alongside the outskirts of the Abbey.

Thomas’ hand is resting against Edward’s arm, and Edward feels positively giddy.

It’s this lightness, this joy, which makes him feel that it is society that has gotten it wrong, twisted.

Something this good - surely, it can’t be a sin to hope? To dream of kisses, to actually kiss someone, just because they’re another man?

Maybe Edward has studied too much of the Greeks.

He cannot deny the way his heart glows, the warmth practically palpable, as they walk together in comfortable silence.

Edward never wants to leave.

It doesn’t take long for Thomas to break the silence, with smooth, melodious words.

“What was your favourite play, up at Oxford?”

Edward pauses, contemplates. “Macbeth. It’s such a rich tragedy, the rise and fall is almost poetic, though Shakespeare can be a drain to read.”

Thomas laughs, and it is bright, beautiful. “Tell me about it. Hamlet’s my favourite, but I wish I did not have to dredge through Elizabethan language to access the plot, sometimes.”

“I was writing a modern translation of Macbeth when the war broke out,” Edward replies, quietly, too quietly, melancholy seeping through. “Now I’ll never get to finish it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Thomas says, with such conviction that Edward is taken aback. “There should be braille translations, and you could learn your way around a typewriter.”

“I suppose,” Edward says, with a weak laugh. “You are awfully optimistic.”

“For you, if nothing else,” Thomas says, his tone brittle, teetering into self-loathing, though Edward cannot determine if he wants to hug him for that or the sweet sentiment. “Regardless, there’s a performance of _Much Ado About Nothing_ in town in a few weeks.”

“A comedy,” Edward says, slightly surprised. “I guess with the way everything is, tragedy has lost its allure.”

“The macabre is always enchanting,” Thomas says, shrugging, his hand slipping slightly, brushing against Edward's exposed wrist. It is altogether too brief, too fleeting, as the hand is removed almost instantly. 

Edward wishes he hadn't.

“Catharsis is always nice,” Edward replies, “but comedy is a different type of balm altogether.”

“It is.” They stop, though Edward does not know why. Perhaps they are approaching the river: he can hear the rush, the sway of water nearby. “Regardless, I brought it up because Nurse Crawley had suggested a trip for those able to go and see it. Major Clarkson has reluctantly agreed.”

His voice is softer when he next speaks. “Forgive me if this is improper, Lieutenant Courtenay, but I did not think it right that you were left out. You are still, certainly, under our care.” A breath, a pause. 

Edward is electrified.

“If it is not unwelcome, I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to their matinee the Saturday they open? It’s my half day, in about three weeks time.”

“That would be lovely.” Edward knows he is being too soft, too affectionate in his tone, but he cannot help it. Thomas, for all his rough, unpolished edges, is so kind, so lovely - so kissable. “Thank you, Corporal Barrow.”

“You are welcome, Lieutenant,” Thomas says, as they shift, turning back around. “Now, I should deliver you back for afternoon tea, or Mrs Patmore will have my head.”

They step out of the lofty shade, the sun now dappling their backs, and Edward -

Edward is _happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all comments, kudoses, bookmarks, etc., truly are seen and appreciated xx
> 
> till next time!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward slips back into melancholy, and Thomas helps him climb his way back out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome to 'edward is sad' chapter! in all seriousness, Edward lapses into a depressive episode and there are brief references to suicidal ideation, so take care of yourselves.
> 
> without further ado, have some pining but also sad edward! enjoy!

After Thomas departs, leaving behind his invitation for an outing that brims with jubilation, a week or so passes without much fanfare. It’s a rhythmic life, the sway of eating, changing, learning. But -

Edward’s slip back into melancholy is so slow that he doesn’t notice he has fallen until the sun is but a distant speck in the sky.

He doesn’t know what caused it: the mundanity of day-to-day life, his bleak future or his hopelessly pining heart.

.

Now, on a bleak, chilly afternoon on a random and otherwise insignificant weekday, Thomas and Edward are drinking tea in Edward’s bedroom, as Thomas helps to nurture Edward’s independence. 

He’s sipping tea when a drop spills, hot but not scalding, rolling onto his left wrist.

He hisses, pressing a napkin against it. But - it’s something, in a world where everything has been nothing, lately.

Thomas is sitting next to him and he gently takes Edward’s cup away from him. “Careful, Lieutenant Courtenay. Remember to keep the cup level.”

Edward barely bites his tongue to stop himself from snapping at Barrow. He just -

He wants to disappear, to evaporate into thin air, leaving behind not a trace.

What’s the point of living any more?

A few weeks, he has lived on the burst of elation of having found some sort of stability, of being so nicely accommodated for.

Now -

He wants to dig his nails into his skin just to feel something, goddammit.

What comes after this war, after the Crawleys’ patience has run thin? Once Thomas inevitably finds out about Edward’s feelings, and pushes him away irrevocably?

What will happen when he falls, and no one will help him get back up, least of all his family?

“I’m fine,” Edward says, his tone simmering hot. “You can go.”

Silence is not his friend, nor is it is his enemy: but it’s not Thomas, so close yet perpetually out of reach.

They’re going to see Shakespeare in a fortnight: it had filled Edward with elation, initially, but now -

Well, it’s just another reminder that he is perpetually a helpless invalid.

Thomas sighs, removing the soaked napkin from Edward’s clenched fist. “You are clearly not alright, Lieutenant Courtenay.”

Silence yawns, it aches.

Edward turns his head away, so he is no longer facing Thomas.

“Lieutenant Courtenay,” Thomas continues; he hesitates, pausing for a second. “Edward, please -”

“Get out,” Edward snaps. Hearing Thomas, his beloved Thomas, calling him Edward is a mockery of the intimacy he so craves but will never have.

The rustle of sheets, the shuffle of feet.

Thomas _leaving._

Another crack splinters across Edward’s already battered heart.

“I’ve still got an hour or so scheduled here, Lieutenant Courtenay,” Thomas says, unyielding. “We should go for a walk now. The weather has cleared up.”

Edward hadn’t even noticed the halt in the pitter-patter of rain.

“Has it?” Edward responds, bitterly. “Have fun on your walk.”

A sigh, a tug on his arm.

“You are coming with.” Thomas sits down again, close enough that their legs touch, which doesn't help the situation. “I am not leaving you like this. You.” He seems to struggle with words for a moment, which is unusual for him. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

This even more so: Edward knows Thomas smokes, from the scent that clings to his clothes, but never - never has he _left_ during one of his scheduled visits to smoke a cigarette before.

A streak of panic cuts through his melancholy: Thomas has been so kind, why is Edward treating him so poorly -

Edward does not know why; he only wants the dull ache lodged in his heart to stop, but it never has, not since he was a kid, and it has only gotten more frequent and intense since the beginning of the war.

He curls up in his bed, closes his eyes, though it doesn’t make much difference.

Although it is only early afternoon, he drifts off into a rough and uneasy sleep, thinking of sharp razor blades and the cool slide of metal against his skin.

.

His emergence into the waking world is no less unpleasant: there are two people arguing outside his door, one pacing up and down the corridor.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Thomas,” Nurse Crawley says. Her raspy voice is soft, gentle. “Shell shock is difficult to treat and terrible to experience.”

“I know but.” A pause, hanging over the stilted air like a knife poised to strike. “I hate seeing him like this. Has it been long?”

Nurse Crawley hums. “He seemed quieter yesterday. But like I said, it’s difficult to tell.”

“Can you try and keep a closer eye on him the next few days?” Thomas asks, a slight tremble in his voice. “I’m scared he’ll try to hurt himself: he’s acting like he did when Clarkson tried to ship him off to Farley.”

“I will, Thomas.”

Thomas stops pacing. “Thank you, Nurse Crawley. I came up here to see him - but I checked and he’s fallen asleep.”

“He won’t hold it against you,” Nurse Crawley says, in her reassuring voice. “Can you make it tomorrow night, after supper?”

A sigh, long and drawn out. “I can try. I’d probably have to stay the night, Carson won’t like that -”

“At my insistence,” Nurse Crawley replies, firmly. “For the health of our patient.”

“Right.” A weary chuckle. “Good afternoon, and goodbye.”

Edward rolls over: he didn’t undress into pyjamas, and the carefully starched sheets are now a tangled mess beneath him, twisted haphazardly between his legs.

He slips back into an uneasy unconsciousness after both Nurse Crawley and Thomas depart, guilt burning in his chest.

Maybe tonight will be better.

.

He eats warm chicken broth alone in his room that night: a depressed invalid probably isn’t the best addition to a dinner table, well-mannered though he may be.

He feels so -

_Lost. Alone. A burden._

But he cannot leave this world behind: Thomas had been so obviously afraid, and Edward _can’t_ give up - if not for himself, for Thomas. It would fracture his soul, irreparably, if he inadvertently hurt Thomas, so the daily trudge must continue.

Edward closes his eyes, rolls over.

Tries and fails to fall asleep.

A new dawn, and perhaps one without this draining taint of loneliness.

Maybe. Or maybe it will just worsen, drag and ebb on for the remainder of his days.

Sleep is scarce at the bottom of the abyss.

.

Edward bathes, dresses and eats his breakfast and, though it is done without much enthusiasm, engages in a braille lesson with Edith.

Nurse Crawley forces him to come down for lunch.

It’s alright. It almost makes him feel human again, sipping sweet wine undercut by the sour tang of red fermented grapes, and navigating polite conversation.

Holding and using cutlery is starting to feel natural again.

The sun moves closer.

The ebb and flow of melancholy persists, but so does the penetrating rays of the sun.

.

Thomas visits that night and not so gently forces Edward to take a walk with him.

“It is important to practice at different times of the days,” he says as Edward leans against him when they turn a particularly perilous bend.

But in reality, Edward knows Thomas is hiding his concern under a mask of professionalism. Edward knows that Thomas cannot care for Edward as Edward cares for Thomas, but it is still overtly evident that Thomas does care for him moreso than many of his patients, for how he goes out of his way to accommodate Edward.

“Thank you,” Edward says, as the knot in his chest starts to slowly loosen. “For helping me.”

“It’s my job,” Thomas replies, his tone only slightly joking, before sighing. “I worry, you know. I am glad you are feeling better, Lieutenant Courtenay.”

Edward wants to bury into Thomas’ side, but he can’t, so he simply tightens his grip on Thomas’ arm. “I am, too. Thank you for sticking with me.”

A chuckle, light. “It’s my job.”

 _No_ , Edward thinks, with an immeasurable degree of fondness, _you are saving me from the world, from myself, and going far beyond your duties._

The melancholy dips: never gone, and Edward knows there will be more days when he feels he is teetering on the brink of collapse, but -

Despite his aching heart, despite the agony of wishing for what he can never have -

Thomas makes Edward breathe easier, helps him hear the birds chirp another day.

The abyss quietens, as Edwards hears the gurgle of the nearby creek, feels the rough fabric of Thomas’ shirt.

Life will never be easy. But with Thomas - at the very least, it is _easier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc, are all seen and appreciated xx

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed my foray into a thomas barrow/edward courtenay fix-it!
> 
> I have a few very plotty long wips in the work, and thought this would be the perfect work to work on the side.


End file.
